LA's Finest
by FireBuff51
Summary: A crossover series featuring the characters of Hunter, Dragnet, Adam-12, SWAT and more. When two LAPD officers are ambushed by a sniper, some of L.A.'s finest answer the call. The ensuing investigation will will uncover a conspiracy that could threaten the City of Angels itself. Chapter 3 now up: Friday and Gannon may have stumbled onto a cult. Hunter gets a new partner.
1. Chapter 1: Officer Down

**L.A.'S FINEST**

 **CHAPTER 1**

" _ **Officer Down"**_

 _ **Downtown Los Angeles.**_

"Sushi again? _Again_ , Bobby?" Officer Tom Foley sighed as he and his partner Roberto Perez stepped from their black and white. "You know there's nothin' I can eat here. I can't stand this raw stuff. Ya know, there's a Carl's Jr. a few blocks over."

Foley and Perez had this same argument just about every other shift. It had become something of a tradition between the two veteran officers.

"Refresh my memory, Tom," Perez said as he opened the glass door of the sushi joint. "Who won the coin toss this morning?"

The coin toss. The ritual at the start of every watch that Foley himself had initiated when they had begun riding together two years ago. The coin toss determined which officer would drive that shift, and then consequently pick where they would eat lunch.

Foley's head dropped.

" _You_ won the toss," he sighed. "You're the only Mexican cop I've ever ridden with who prefers raw fish to a burrito."

"Is that a racial joke? This is the new LAPD, Tommy Boy. That kind of talk won't be tolerated any-"

The glass of the open door shattered. Perez dropped to the pavement as blood sprayed from his neck.

Patrons of the restaurant as well as bystanders on the street screamed and scattered as another shot rang out, punching a hole in the patrol car's rear windshield.

Foley dragged his partner through the open door of the restaurant and keyed the mic on his chest.

"1A33! Officers need help! Officer down! Shots fired at the police! Wilshire and Figueroa! I need back up and an R.A. unit now!"

" _1A33, roger,_ " the dispatcher replied before three tones sounded over Central Division's radio frequency. " _Central units, any Central units and 1-Adam-12, officers need help, Wilshire and Figueroa. 1A33 is taking gunfire with an officer down. Standby for additional. 1-Adam-12, handle Code-3._ "

Several blocks away, Officer Jim Reed pulled the mic from its holder as his partner Pete Malloy gunned the patrol car's engine.

"1-Adam-12, roger," Reed replied, switching on the patrol car's lights and siren.

Meanwhile, several shots struck the pavement near the front door of the sushi bar. Another round hit the trunk of the patrol car.

"Bobby!" Foley shouted, snatching a cloth napkin from a nearby table. He pressed it to the wound on his partner's neck. "Hang on, buddy! You're gonna be okay!"

The customers watched in horror.

"Oh my God! Oh my God!" a woman shrieked.

"Everybody get down!" Foley shouted. "Get to the back! Stay away from the windows!"

Another shot hit the door jamb, splintering off pieces of plaster.

The cook rushed from around the counter and helped Foley pull Perez away from the front door.

"I help! I help!" he said, pressing his apron against Perez's wound. He wrapped his free arm across the officer's chest and slumped against the wall.

Foley peered out of the doorway again with his weapon at his side. He couldn't tell where the hell the shots were coming from.

XXXXXX

 _ **LAPD Headquarters.**_

Detective Sergeant Rick Hunter stood at attention in full uniform before the disciplinary panel comprised of several commanding officers.

A Deputy Chief shuffled the papers in his hands and adjusted the microphone before him.

"Sergeant Hunter, I again urge you to take the advice of your union lawyer and accept this formal reprimand."

"With all due respect, Chief," Hunter replied. "I can't do that."

Sitting on a bench behind him also in uniform, his partner Dee Dee McCall rolled her eyes. She'd worked with him for years but was still surprised at how stubborn and downright hardheaded her partner could be.

"All right, then. Do you have anything to say for yourself before the board issues its decision?" asked the Deputy Chief.

"I believe that my actions on the night of the 24th were justified. I had no choice but to exercise deadly force when the 187 suspect aimed his vehicle at my fellow officers. Had I not shot and killed the suspect, I have no doubt in my mind that he would have injured or killed two of this city's police officers. I'm grateful that the officers involved testified to the fact."

"Sergeant Hunter, you do understand that the LAPD is facing another lawsuit over this incident, don't you?" asked a Captain, sitting to the left of the Deputy Chief.

"The LAPD faces a lawsuit if an officer helps an old lady cross the street, Captain. Everyone's gunning for us. The bad guys, the lawyers, the so called community activists. Maybe if this department's leadership and the Mayor showed some backbone and stood up to every piss ant lawsuit that came down the chute, we might not be in such of a-"

"That's enough, Sergeant!" the Deputy Chief snapped. "You've had your say. This board is prepared to rule."

Hunter set his jaw and prepared for the worst.

"Sergeant Hunter, it is the ruling of this board, that in addition to your unpaid suspension, which has already been served, you are to be demoted from the rank of Detective Sergeant to Detective-2. Furthermore, you are to be reassigned from Metropolitan Division to Central Division Homicide. You can thank the impassioned pleas of your partner, Detective McCall. Without her testimony to sway this panel's decision, you'd most likely be working Valley Traffic Bureau. This hearing is adjourned."

He banged a gavel and the brass left the room. Hunter stepped out into the hall, listening to the admonishments of his union provided lawyer.

The lawyer eventually threw up his hands and continued on down the hall alone, shaking his head. Hunter lifted his gaze to see his partner leaning against the wall, arms folded.

"Hunter, what the hell was that?"

She stepped in front of him. At 6'6", he towered over her.

"It was a load of crap and you know it," he replied.

"All you had to do was sign that reprimand and you would've stayed in METRO where you belong. Now you're going back to Central to work bangers shooting bangers and babies left in dumpsters."

"Somebody's gotta work those cases."

She rested her hands on her hips and glared up at him.

"Look, Dee Dee," he sighed. "I didn't do anything wrong and we both know it. I just couldn't sign that paper. I'll be okay. I've still got my badge. And you're movin' up to Robbery-Homicide. Our partnership's ending, anyway."

She shook her head and sighed in exasperation, looking off down the hall with a smirk.

"You're a pain in the ass, Rick Hunter. You know that? "

He smiled and hitched a thumb over his belt buckle.

"You know you wouldn't want me any other way. Thanks for having my back, partner."

Several officers ran past.

"What's goin' on?" asked McCall.

"Officer down," one of the officers called over his shoulder. "Looks like a sniper."

Hunter and McCall looked at each other before rushing after the others.

XXXXXX

Two unmarked, black Chevy Suburbans sat in the parking lot behind Metro Division's new headquarters building with their doors open.

Sergeant Dan "Hondo" Harrleson slung his M-4A1 over one shoulder and unfolded a map on the hood of a patrol car.

The four members of his SWAT element stood behind him.

"Okay. This is your typical Rampart Division crack house, boys and girl," he said, standing up. "It'll be a dynamic entry through the front…"

"Hondo, are we seriously gonna take this house a man short?" asked Officer Jim Street, tucking his fritz helmet under an arm. "I mean, we've gotta find a permanent replacement for T.J. sometime."

"Jimmy's right, Sarge," Deacon Kaye spoke up, shouldering his 12 gauge shotgun. "We need another man to fill out our unit."

"Or woman," Kris Sanchez added, propping a boot on the Suburban's bumper.

"Oh Please," laughed Michael Boxer. "No more chicks in SWAT. One is enough."

Sanchez smiled.

"You wanna throw down, white boy?" she called, raising her fists.

"Okay," Hondo laughed, slipping on his shades. "We'll have a replacement comin' in next shift. We won't be alone today. We've got back up from B-Platoon and Rampart patrol. Now can we get back to business?"

"Patrol? Come on, Hondo," Deacon cocked his head. "They can't hang with us. You're either SWAT or you're not. _You_ told us that."

" _70-David from 114,_ " echoed their radios. " _Per R-Commander, you are to disregard your current assignment and respond to Wilshire and Figueroa for an officers need help call. 1A33 is taking gunfire from a possible sniper with one officer down at the scene."_

"You heard her, kids," Hondo gathered up the map. "Mount up!"

XXXXXX

1-Adam-12 skidded around the corner and came to a stop in the street behind an abandoned pickup truck. Sirens filled the air.

Reed emerged from the passenger seat with his service weapon drawn as Malloy stepped from the driver's side and pulled his Glock.

The side mirror of a nearby Volkswagen exploded and the two officers crouched behind their doors for cover.

"Pete! Up there!" Reed shouted as he nodded towards the fourth story window of an office building. "One O'clock!"

Malloy squinted and saw what appeared to be a long rifle poking out of the window.

"1-Adam-12," Malloy keyed his shoulder mic. "advise units that the sniper appears to be in the office building on the southwest corner of Figueroa, fourth floor."

The passenger door of a white minivan that was parked in front of the pickup swung open. A woman peered out, holding a young girl in her arms.

"No!" Reed shouted. "Stay down! Stay in the car!"

She pushed the little girl out of the car and pointed for her to run into the store across the street.

The little girl dashed away from the car and through the front door of the shop where the customers pulled her away from the windows.

The woman crawled out and crouched behind the open car door.

"No! Damn it, lady!" Malloy shouted. "Stay in the car!"

The woman peered over the door then glanced at the storefront. Reed felt his stomach tighten. He knew what was about to happen.

"Pete, she's gonna go for it!" he growled through clenched teeth.

The woman darted into the open street. A shot pierced the air and she collapsed to the pavement amid muffled screams from inside the store.

The woman lay on the pavement, bleeding from her right leg.

"I'm goin' after her, partner", Reed said as he holstered his gun.

"I can't cover you, Jim," Malloy replied. "If I fire at that building…"

"I know. Bystanders,", Reed sighed. "I'm goin' anyway, Pete."

He dashed from behind the car and kept his head low as he raced the fifteen feet to the downed woman.

"Oh God, I don't wanna die!" the woman screamed.

Reed slipped his hands under her arms.

"That makes two of us, lady."

He dragged her across the street, leaving a long smear of blood as bullets struck the pavement near them.

A customer held the shop's door open for them. Reed stumbled backwards as he dragged the woman inside.

"My leg!" the woman cried. "Oh God! My leg!"

"You'll be okay," Reed said as he drew his pistol and headed back for the door. He stared at the frightened customers inside. "I need somebody to find some cloth and apply pressure to her wound."

An older, well dressed woman slipped off her scarf and crouched beside the victim whose daughter ran into her arms.

Hunter and McCall screeched to a stop in the intersection, just up from the sniper's location. They stepped from the unmarked silver sedan and crouched behind their doors.

"There! Second window from the right," Hunter called before firing off two shots from his .45.

The rifle barrel disappeared from the window.

"1A33 from 1-Adam-12," Malloy called into his radio. "How's Perez?"

"Not good, Pete!" Officer Foley's voice crackled over the radio. "We gotta get 'im outta here!"

"Hang on, Tommy!" Malloy replied. "Just hang on! I'm comin' for ya!"

He slid in behind the wheel of the patrol car and hunched over. He was going to have to drive further into the line of fire to help evacuate the fallen officer.

The SWAT units with flashing red and blue window lights screamed around the corner behind him.

Hondo and his team piled out of the two trucks in full tactical gear, assault weapons at the ready.

Hondo and Deacon jogged up beside the patrol car.

"Where's the injured officer, Pete?" asked Hondo.

"Up there, Sarge," said Malloy. "The sushi bar."

Deacon opened one of the patrol car's rear doors and placed his rifle inside.

"I'll go Hondo."

"Okay. In and out, you two," said Hondo. "Don't waste any time."

Deacon climbed into the backseat, keeping the door propped open with his foot. Hondo and Sanchez took cover behind the front of a parked car, while Street and Boxer took up positions in the doorway of an adjoining restaurant, MP5's raised.

Malloy gunned the engine. The black and white sped forward, causing the open passenger door to slam shut. He swerved between the minivan and pickup truck, driving up onto the sidewalk.

Deacon and Malloy rushed into the restaurant. Deacon crouched in the doorway and trained his gun at the sniper's location as Foley and Malloy lifted Perez and carried him towards the patrol car.

Suddenly shots came at them from ground level near the base of the building. Deacon returned fire.

"Damn it! There's two of em!" Hunter shouted, firing off several shots at the office building's parking garage where the second set of shots had come from.

"R-125!" McCall called into the mic clipped to her chest. "We have a second shooter in the parking garage on Wilshire, ground floor of the building!"

Foley ducked into the patrol car's back seat, cradling his partner's lifeless body on top of him. Deacon climbed into the backseat with him, the rear door ajar.

Malloy slid back in behind the wheel and threw the patrol car into reverse. The tires squealed as he sped backwards down the street.

He maneuvered past the SWAT trucks and made a reverse turn onto the cross street, then sped forward out of the line of fire, just as an LAFD ambulance and fire engine approached.

Hunter and McCall stood at the corner of the building across the street from the suspect's location.

A male in a black jacket fired a handgun at them. The two detectives returned fire and the man disappeared into the garage again.

A minute later, a green Range Rover sped out of the garage and east down Wilshire towards them with two men inside.

Hunter fired at the vehicle blowing out two of the side windows. He ran into the street and fired another shot at the truck as it raced up Figueroa, shattering the rear window.

"Let's go!" he shouted, dashing back to their car.

"R-125, suspects are headed northbound Figueroa towards 6th," McCall reported, climbing into their sedan. "Green late model Range Rover. Suspects are two male whites. Show us in pursuit."

"Come on, Street!" called Hondo as he ran back to their black Suburban. Street slid in behind the wheel as Hondo rode shotgun.

They raced up the street, siren screaming. Street sped down the sidewalk on the right side of Wilshire, bypassing the abandoned cars. The truck bounced off of the curb as it screeched around the corner and followed Hunter and McCall's unit up Figueroa.

The suspect's vehicle sped east down 6th and then north up Flower Street. Hunter kept pace, careening around the corner after them.

"We've got some help," Hunter said, eyeing the Suburban in his rear view mirror. "Looks like those SWAT cowboys."

McCall braced her hand on the car's window frame.

"You're calling _them_ cowboys?" she called sarcastically. "You just fired at a moving vehicle, minutes after you were _just_ demoted for _shooting at a moving vehicle_!"

He smirked as he jerked the wheel to avoid a Toyota that had failed to pull over.

"Like you said, I'm hardheaded."

Street steered the Suburban into oncoming traffic in order to miss the same, siren ignoring Toyota.

"Damn, I hate traffic in this city!" Hondo snapped as he snatched the mic from it's holder. "70-David, show us northbound Flower turning east onto 5th behind R-125."

By now, several black and whites had joined the pursuit behind them as well as a police helicopter overhead, and two local news copters.

The Range Rover turned north onto Grand, speeding in excess of 70 miles per hour up the steep hill that split through the canyon of skyscrapers. Traffic was stopped ahead, with the intersection at 3rd Street jammed with buses, trucks and cars.

The suspect vehicle skidded and fishtailed in an effort to avoid the gridlock.

"We got 'im now, boss!" Street called as he slowed the Suburban.

"Don't be so sure," Hondo replied, pulling his sidearm.

The suspects turned right and drove up onto the sidewalk, then down into the open air courtyard at the base of two looming office buildings, causing people to flee inside.

The driver spun the vehicle around so that it faced the street and revved the engine.

"Oh, there is no way in hell they're makin' it back to the street!" Hondo snapped, sounding highly annoyed. "Jim..."

"Way ahead of ya, Hondo," Street replied as he drove up onto the sidewalk and stopped the Suburban above the stairs, blocking the suspects' only exit route.

Hunter backed up the unmarked unit and drove it up onto the sidewalk as well. He and McCall stepped out guns drawn.

Hondo left the driver's side of the SUV with his sidearm leveled at the Range Rover.

Street took up a position behind his door with his MP5 sub-machine gun poised to fire.

Several black and whites stopped in the street as more officers flooded the scene.

The barrel of the sniper's rifle appeared from the Range Rover's passenger window.

Hondo fired three rounds through the windshield. The rifle barrel dropped and the passenger slumped over.

The driver's door opened and the suspect wearing a black jacket stepped out, holding a pistol low at his side and raced for cover.

The suspect dove behind a low retaining wall. He reemerged, holding a small boy hostage, with the muzzle of the pistol pressed to the child's head.

"Put him down! Now!" Hondo shouted as he jogged down the steps.

"You did this! This is your doing! The LAPD! All of you!" the man shouted.

Hunter cautiously rushed forward, followed by his partner.

"You're not helpin' yourself, pal," he called, keeping his .45 rigidly aimed at the suspect. "Listen to the man, put the boy down."

The boy cried in the man's arms, struggling to break free from his grasp.

Street crouched low. He hurried back alongside the Suburban out of the suspect's view and then crept through the mass of police cars, unnoticed.

Hondo and Hunter made their way down the steps.

"Stop! Stop! Don't you pigs come any closer!" the suspect shouted. "Don't you get it? You think I'm the only one? There's more! More like me!"

"Let that little boy go and you can tell us whatever you want," said McCall, calmly. "You know it's not right to use him like that."

"Not right? Not right? There's plenty of things not right in this world! In this city!"

Street jogged down the sidewalk and knelt behind a concrete trash receptacle.

He propped his MP5 on the edge and lined up a clear shot at the back of the suspect's head.

"Mom…," the little boy cried." Where are you? "

The door to a ground floor suite opened and a woman screamed as she ran forward.

"No! Don't hurt my son!" she cried.

As the suspect turned to see where the woman was, the boy slipped in his arms.

Street fired. A single .9mm round pierced the suspect's skull, just above his left eye.

He crumpled to the pavement, dropping the boy, who ran to his mother.

The officers rushed forward, guns still trained on the suspect.

"He's done," Hondo said, holstering his pistol as he keyed the mic on his tactical vest. "70-David, shots fired, suspect down. Roll me an R.A. for an adult male, gunshot wound to the head. No officers injured."

McCall and a patrol officer cleared the suspect's vehicle as other officers tended to the boy and his mother.

Street exhaled as he walked over and slipped off his helmet, his weapon slung across his chest.

"Nice shot, Jimmy," Hondo said, slapping his shoulder.

Hunter nodded as he stared down at the suspect's body.

"Works for me."

"What the hell was he talking about?" asked McCall as she walked over.

Street shrugged as he slipped off his goggles and wiped his brow.

"Guess it's up to the detectives now."

XXXXXX

 _ **Police Administration Building.**_

 _ **Robbery-Homicide Division.**_

A phone rang on one of the large metal desks that lined both sides of the office. A detective at the far end looked up from his desk.

"Hey, somebody gonna answer that?" he called.

A serious looking detective in his forties, sporting a dark crew cut, walked into the office carrying a sport coat over his shoulder.

He draped the jacket over his desk chair and picked up the phone.

"Robbery-Homicide," he answered. "Sergeant Friday."

 _ **TO BE CONTINUED…** _

_This is a work of fiction, any similarities to actual persons, places or incidents is purely coincidental. All law enforcement information may not be accurate._


	2. Chapter 2: Thank God It's Friday

_**L.A.'S FINEST**_

 **CHAPTER 2**

" _ **THANK GOD IT'S FRIDAY"**_

 _ **Downtown Los Angeles**_

 _ **1545 hrs.**_

An olive colored, unmarked Ford Crown Victoria rolled up to the shooting scene. Sergeant Joe Friday stepped from the car, wincing at the bright lights from the news cameras.

Uniformed officers held back a growing phalanx of reporters and camera crews as he and his partner Detective Bill Gannon descended the steps to the courtyard.

They were assigned to the Robbery-Homicide Division, the LAPD's elite major case unit. Any high profile, complicated case, including officer involved shootings, fell strictly within RHD's ballpark. They had a full plate before them.

Detective Frank Smith, also from RHD, met them as they strode into the courtyard.

"Joe, Bill," Smith nodded

"Frank." Friday shook his hand. "What've ya got for us?"

Smith began to detail the events of the last 63 minutes, according

to the officers' statements.

Hunter folded his arms as he stood behind McCall.

"Looks like they called out the big guns. Joe Friday himself. Take a good look, McCall. There's your new Sergeant."

She looked up at him sideways.

"What's your problem with Joe Friday?"

"The guy bugs me. He's so…I don't know. He's like a boy scout."

"And that bugs you?"

"Pretty much. All that _by the book_ stuff. It's not for me."

"Yeah, no kidding."

Street leaned against a post sipping a bottle of water.

"If I ever make Detective, I'd like to be like him."

Hunter stared at him, eyebrow raised.

Street met his skeptical gaze with a smile.

"Hey, call me crazy, Hunter. But the guy's a hell of an investigator. If he worked RHD back in the 90's, O.J.'d be servin' life in San Quentin right now instead of sittin' in a cell in Vegas on a burglary beef."

"What do you know, Street?" Hunter replied. "You're what? Barely 30?"

"He might be a kid, but he's right," said Hondo. "Joe Friday's _The Man_."

Friday and Gannon walked over.

"Glad to see everybody's in one piece," said Friday. "Dan, good to see ya again, despite the circumstances."

Hondo shook his hand.

"No sweat, Joe. Nice to see ya."

Friday eyed Hunter.

"Hunter."

Hunter eyed him back.

"Friday."

Gannon emitted an exaggerated cough.

"My humble new partner, Bill Gannon," Friday grinned briefly.

Gannon, in his late thirties with close cropped brown hair already flecked with gray, wore a brown sport coat and tie, looking every bit the stereotypical LAPD detective.

"Nice to meet everybody," Gannon replied, taking his notepad from inside his coat. "It's nice to see you again, Dee Dee."

"You too, Bill. It's been a long time since we worked Hollywood, hasn't it? "

"Okay," said Friday. "An officer and civilian have been shot, two suspects are dead and we're here to find out why. Smith said that the second suspect made some odd statements."

"He was babbling, really," said McCall.

Friday cocked his head.

"How's that?"

"Well, he said _we_ were to blame for what happened. All of us."

"All of you?"

"Us," said Hunter, gesturing towards the other officers. "The LAPD."

"Yeah, and he said somethin' like, there were more people like him," Hondo scratched his chin as he attempted to recall the suspect's last words. "And that there were plenty of things wrong in this city."

"No argument there," said Friday. "Did it appear that he was under the influence of anything?"

"He seemed straight to me," replied Street.

Gannon nodded as he wrote in his notebook.

"We got any ID's on our actors?"

"Nothin' yet. Coroner's guys aren't here yet, so we haven't been able to search 'em," said Hunter.

"Truck came back stolen out of Foothill Division," McCall added.

"Anybody search the truck yet?" asked Friday.

"Not yet," Hunter answered plainly. He hated being questioned by other cops, even when he knew it was necessary.

Friday nodded.

"Okay. We'll check it…." he was interrupted by the electronic chirp of his cell phone.

A grim expression passed over his face as he listened to the call.

"Bad news," he sighed, tucking the phone back into his coat pocket. "Officer Perez just died during surgery."

The officers exchanged sad glances.

"Come on, Bill," said Friday. "Let's get to work."

XXXXXX

The LAPD's Scientific Investigations Division and L.A. County Coroner's investigators had arrived shortly thereafter and went about the business of searching the suspects' bodies and vehicle for evidence.

Friday and Gannon stood behind the Range Rover, peering in through the open rear hatch as a criminalist searched inside.

"I wanna know what possessed these punks to do something like this", said Friday, pushing back his sport coat as he rested his hands on his hips.

"Maybe they had a grudge against cops," offered Gannon. "Lord knows the LAPD hasn't garnered much love from the public the last few years."

"Possibly. But why like this? Most people that wanna off a cop, do it up close, usually if they're cornered or think there's no way out. Why use a sniper rifle? It doesn't add up."

Gannon sighed as he continued to watch the technician inside the truck.

"Yeah. Our shooter does his dirty work from a distance and he's got a getaway vehicle stashed down in the parking garage. Romero and Jacobs, down at the first scene, told me that the second shooter was at ground level, hiding out at the entrance to the garage."

Friday nodded

"He was a lookout. These guys put some thought into it."

The criminalist crawled over to the rear opening of the truck and held up a business card in his latex gloved fingers.

"Found this, Joe. Stuck between the backseats."

Friday stretched on a glove and took the card from him. Gannon peered over his shoulder as Friday read it aloud.

"Angels' Nest. 2303 Mulholland Drive."

"Angels' Nest? Sounds like a strip club," Gannon quipped.

"Other than prints, this truck's pretty clean," said the criminalist, climbing out of the vehicle.

The Coroner's investigator, a man named Levine rounded the back of the truck carrying several evidence bags.

"I'm done, Detectives. Suspect #1 had nothing on him but a half empty pack of Lucky Strikes and a lighter. No keys, no wallet, nothin'. However, suspect #2 is a different story," he held up a plastic bag containing a weathered black wallet. "Leon Rusnik. 3500 El Sereno over on the east side. 34 years old. Also found a ten dollar bill, a five, two condoms, a scratched off lottery ticket and a Value-Mart discount card."

Gannon copied the information down in his notebook.

"Sounds like a real high roller."

"Okay, let's run our man Rusnik and see what we come up with," said Friday inspecting the plastic evidence bags. "You print these guys yet, Marty?"

The Criminalist held up his heavy metal case.

"Right now, Sergeant."

McCall walked around the back of the truck, carrying her jacket over one shoulder.

"Sergeant? Are you done with us? We've already talked to FID and we still need to give our statements to the D.A.'s shooting team and I uh, kind of have a date tonight."

"Sure," Friday replied. "Good job today, Detective. See you Monday, 0800 at RHD. Something tells me we're gonna need you."

"See you then," McCall turned and headed across the courtyard.

Hunter strolled up next to her, hands in pockets.

"A date?" he asked, amused.

"Don't you start," she sighed.

Gannon gathered up the evidence bags and slipped them into manila envelopes.

"So I guess I'd better call my wife and tell her I'm comin' home late tonight. After I call in for the warrant."

Friday shrugged.

"Didn't you say she was cooking her famous New England dinner tonight? "

"Yeah. So?"

"So, I'm doing you a favor by making you work," said Friday. "Let's take a trip over to East L.A. and I'll buy you a chili dog after on the way back."

XXXXXX

Friday and Gannon proceeded to 3500 El Sereno Boulevard in East Los Angeles. It was a small duplex built in the 1920's with peeling white paint and slanted, cracked adobe roofs. Much like the rest of the neighborhood, the building had seen better days.

The detectives stepped onto the front porch where the word _MANAGER_ was labeled in peeling gold letters on the door.

Gannon rapped on the door. A second later, a small window above the peep hole slid open and a suspicious eye glared out at them.

"Whattaya want?" called a raspy voice.

"Police officers, ma'am," Friday replied.

"Show me yer badges."

They held up their gold shields. They could hear the chain being removed and the door creaked open to reveal an elderly woman wearing a pink and yellow flowered housecoat with her hair wrapped in a scarf and a cigarette dangling from her lips.

Friday noticed the half empty glass of what appeared to be scotch in her hand and surmised that happy hour had started early for her. Maybe if it had never ended in the first place.

"Okay, whattaya want?"

"I'm Sergeant Friday, this is Detective Gannon, Los Angeles Police Department. Does a Leon Rusnik live here?"

"Yeah. Ain't seen him in two days," she coughed and spit a gray glob into the barren flowerbed below the porch. "Bum's been late with the rent again. I know you fellas ain't comin' to evict his lazy behind, the Sheriff's do that. I should know. Been here 60 years."

"Uh, yes ma'am," Gannon interjected. "Does Mr. Rusnik live with anyone?"

"Nope. He's a loner, that one. Personally, I think he's a little…" she made an effeminate motion with her hand. "Know what I mean, fellas?"

"Do you know where we might be able to contact his family?"

"Hell if I know. Hey, what'd he do, anyway?"

"I'm sorry to inform you that he died today, ma'am," Friday answered. He held up a folded document. "We have a warrant to search his apartment. Would you let us in, please?"

"Oh…oh…okay," she replied, suddenly appearing uneasy. She removed a key ring from a peg just inside the door and waved for them to follow her as she limped off of the porch. "Well, as long as you're here, I think the kid down the way is selling drugs and the gal on the other side has a pot plant in her window. At least, I think. Just the guesses of a feeble old woman. That enough to bust 'em?"

"Sorry. We need facts, ma'am," answered Friday.

"May we have the keys?" asked Gannon, as they approached the apartment.

"Sure," the old woman said, handing him the keys. "I'm missin' _Dr. Phil_ , anyways. Just give 'em back when you boys are done."

"Yes, ma'am."

Friday waited for her to step back inside before he drew his pistol. He stepped onto the porch and stood to the left of the door, while Gannon stepped right and drew his own sidearm, cautiously unlocking the door.

Gannon nudged the door open, keeping his weapon trained on the darkened apartment. Friday followed him inside, flashlight held high. They did a quick search and after determining that the apartment was indeed empty, returned to the small living room.

Both detectives stretched on latex gloves. Friday switched on a lamp. The green, 1970's style couch was covered in dirty, stained clothes. Half a dozen beer bottles adorned the coffee table while boxes and stacks of old newspapers seemed to abound.

"Pigsty," the sergeant sighed quietly, looking around.

Gannon shuffled through a small stack of envelopes on top of a cabinet next to the door.

"Bill...bill...late notice..."

Friday stared at the coffee table. A white pamphlet caught his attention. He brushed aside several mens' magazine's and picked it up.

"Bill," he held up the small booklet. An amateurish drawing of an angel adorned the cover.

"What've ya got, Joe?"

Friday thumbed through several poorly photocopied pages.

"Looks like some kind of religious tract," he read from one of the pages. " _It is the duty of each man and woman to liberate the masses from the bonds of Satan_."

"Doesn't sound like any religious tract I've ever seen," said Gannon. "And I went to Catholic school for 12 years. Does it say how _each man and woman_ aresupposed to _liberate the masses,_ Joe?"

"Nope. Mentions something about a _purification of the Old Guard_ , though."

"Sounds more like a cult, to me. Any address or contact information in there?"

"Nothing like that," Friday replied, thoughtfully. "Bill…there's an angel on the cover of this, right?"

Gannon stared at his partner.

"Yeah, and _Angels' Nest_ was printed on that card that SID found. Looks like it might be some kind of church."

Friday nodded.

"Let's see what else we can find here. We'll drive up to Mulholland in the morning."

XXXXXX

Several of the officers who had been involved in the shootout and chase had gathered after work at a downtown watering hole.

Malloy sat with an arm hooked over the back of his chair. Reed sat across from him, staring at his glass.

"You okay there, kid?" asked Malloy. "Ya barely touched your beer."

"Oh…yeah. Thanks, Pete," Reed replied self consciously. "I just…keep thinking about Jean. She always worries about me and when she saw the news today, she called my cell. She was pretty shaken up. I hate putting her through that."

"Yeah. I hear ya," Malloy sipped his beer. "Cops' wives should get medals."

"Perez. Bobby, I mean. I…I wish there was more we could have done."

"We did our best, Jim. All we can do now...", Malloy shrugged and looked off briefly. "Is honor him by going out there and doing our job. Continue doing the job that he started out to do this morning when he began his watch, protecting the people of this city, whether they appreciate it or not."

Reed nodded and sipped his beer.

Hunter walked over with a long neck bottle.

"Mind if I pull up a chair fellas?"

"Please, Sergeant." Malloy motioned for him to sit down.

"Just _Detective_ , now," Hunter said, turning the chair backwards and sitting down. "Lost my stripes this afternoon."

"For what it's worth, Hunter, I think you did the right thing," Reed offered.

"Thanks, Reed," Hunter elbowed Malloy. "Your partner here seems like a good kid."

Malloy shrugged and smiled before draining his glass.

"He does okay, I guess."

Two young men in street clothes approached, one white with short blond hair, the other, a good looking Hispanic guy.

"Baker and Poncherello," Malloy nodded. "What are two of the CHP's hot shot motor cops doing slumming it in an LAPD bar?"

"We just got off duty," Baker explained. "We just wanted to share our condolences."

"Much appreciated," said Reed.

"And, we'd like to buy you guys the next round," Poncherello offered.

"Well, in that case," said Hunter. "Pull up a seat."

Hondo and his team sat in a booth at the corner of the bar. Sanchez carried over a pizza and placed it in the middle of the table.

She eyed Deacon who sat slumped with his arms draped across the back of the booth.

"Come on, Deac. Ya gotta eat something," she said, licking sauce from her thumb as she sat down beside Boxer.

He shook his head.

"Not hungry."

Hondo dropped a slice onto a plate and slid it in front of him.

"Don't beat yourself up, Deac. I know it's hard, but you did everything right."

"Still, Perez pretty much died in my arms, Hondo. For what? Just don't make any sense."

"Hell, how many things in this job _do_ make sense?," Hondo laughed wearily.

Deacon smirked and nodded.

Street walked over carrying a fresh pitcher.

"Oh, there he is!" Boxer called, taking a bite of his pizza. "Heard about the fancy shootin', Tex."

Street offered a half smile and sat down beside Sanchez.

"Shucks, I was just doin' mah job."

The officers broke into quiet laughter. Hondo stood.

"Hey, everybody, can I have your attention please?" he called.

The room fell silent and the other officers focused on him.

"A good man lost his life today and the city of Los Angeles lost a damned good cop. So, to honor him, let's raise our glasses in a toast to Officer Roberto Perez, whose watch has ended. Rest easy, brother. We'll take it from here."

The officers lifted their glasses.

"To Perez!"

XXXXXX

Friday and Gannon sat at their desks in the Robbery-Homicide office, eating chili dogs. Most of the lights at the other desks were dimmed.

Gannon studied his computer's monitor.

"Leon Harnell Ruznik," he read aloud. "Born 4/21/83 in Torrance. Three priors for weapons violations, assault and misdemeanor drug possession. Iraq war vet, Army. Dishonorable discharge in '04. Bounced around between here and Arizona. He was at the El Sereno address for the last year and a half."

"We got a print hit on our sniper," said Friday, wiping his mouth with a paper napkin as he picked up the printout sheet," Michael Paul Carlton. 42. Nasty customer. Did a stretch in Pelican Bay for 211, got out and went right back in for ADW on a P.O., stabbed a Sheriff's Deputy in Fresno. Last known address was in Lake View Terrace. I called it when we got back. He was staying in a guest house. They said he moved out three months ago. Left no forwarding address. Naturally."

"Naturally," Gannon sighed. "Could SID trace the guns?"

"Still workin' on it. They're backed up down at the lab like usual."

Friday gathered up his dinner trash and tossed it into the wastebasket beside his desk.

"I have a feeling," he said, holding up the Angel cover brochure.

"That this place might be the key."

XXXXXX

 _ **2238 hrs.**_

 _ **2303 Mulholland Drive.**_

At the edge of a gravel driveway off of the main road was a white wooden sign with the words ANGELS' NEST painted on it in red. The driveway led to an old white and yellow bungalow that was partially secluded by tall pine trees. Another cottage sat just off to the left of the entrance.

A thin man sporting a beard and shaggy brown hair stepped out onto the porch, smoking a cigarette. Bright headlights momentarily blinded him as a beat up red pick up truck pulled to a stop in front of the bungalow.

He stepped off of the porch. An Hispanic man with a shaved head and wearing blue sweats looked around nervously as he stepped from the truck.

"Are they in there?" asked the man with the shaggy hair.

"How do I know you ain't a cop, ese? Or ATF?"

The other man laughed.

"Please. Do I look like a cop, my brother?"

"I ain't your brother, holmes."

"We are all God's children."

"Whatever. You got my dough?"

The shaggy haired man pulled a folded brown paper bag from his back pocket and pointed at the covered bed of the truck.

The Hispanic man nodded and tossed back the tarp. The other man smiled as he tossed the bag to him and peered into the back of the truck.

There were at least twelve assault rifles laying in the bed as well as two large ammo cases and a duffel bag that was packed with hand grenades.

"Bless you, my son," he laughed. "Bless you."

 **TO BE CONTINUED**

 _This is a work of fiction, any similarities to actual persons, places or incidents is purely coincidental. All law enforcement information may not be accurate._


	3. Chapter 3: Fallen Angels

**L.A.'S FINEST**

 **CHAPTER 3**

" _ **Fallen Angels"**_

 _ **0812 hrs.**_

 _ **2303 Mulholland Drive.**_

Joe Friday guided the unmarked Ford Crown Victoria onto the gravel driveway, rolling past the large wooden _ANGELS' NEST_ sign.

His partner Bill Gannon scanned the property from the passenger side window.

"This place doesn't look like an 'angels' nest'," Gannon said as they stopped in front of the bungalow.

"You know how it is, Bill," Friday said stepping from the car. "This is Los Angeles. Things are rarely what they seem."

Two serious men wearing black windbreakers with orange lining stepped through the front door onto the porch.

"Can we help you, gentlemen?" called a blond man with short cropped hair.

Friday pulled back his jacket to reveal the gold badge on his belt as he and Gannon approached.

"Los Angeles Police Department, Robbery-Homicide Division. We'd like to speak to the person in charge, please."

"You got a warrant?" asked the second man.

Gannon hooked his thumbs over his belt buckle and squinted up from behind dark glasses.

"Is there a reason why we would need one?"

The bearded man with shaggy brown hair stepped from inside, wearing a blue, grease stained jumpsuit.

"Come on now, Thad, Joseph," he smiled, stepping off of the porch. "Don't be so inhospitable to our guests. Hello, Officers. I'm Samuel Parsons. My congregation calls me Brother Sam. What can I do for you?"

"Sergeant Friday, Detective Gannon, LAPD," Friday said as they shook his hand. "Your congregation? So you're some sort of clergyman, then?"

"Yes. Although, I've never really thought of myself as such. A lay preacher, if you will. I'm just a man doing the Lord's work. Won't you come inside and we can discuss whatever it is that brings you gentlemen here?"

The two men eyed the detectives suspiciously as Friday and Gannon stepped inside the house. The detectives followed Parsons down the hall and into a small office.

"Please forgive my appearance," Parsons said, easing into a creaky office chair behind his desk. "I was about to go work on my old car. What can I do for you officers?"

Friday pulled the pamphlet from his jacket.

"Is this your literature, sir?"

"Ah, yes. One of our older tracts. Wherever did you find it?"

"In the apartment of a man named Leon Rusnik. Do you know him?"

"Yes. I know Leon very well. He's our handyman. Is he in some sort of trouble?"

"He's dead, sir," Gannon replied. "Killed yesterday in a shootout with our officers. He and another man killed a police officer and attempted to kill several more."

Parsons slumped back in his chair and ran a hand through his mop of hair. His lower lip quivered.

"Oh my goodness. I saw that on the news. That was _him_? That's very upsetting. I thought something was wrong when he didn't show up for work yesterday. You're sure it was _our_ Leon?"

"Yes, Sir. We're sure," said Friday. "Do you know a man named Michael Carlton?"

Parsons stared thoughtfully at his desk.

"No, can't say that I do. This is just terrible news. Forgive me," he dabbed at his eyes. "I just can't believe that Leon is dead. He'd just begun his walk with the Lord this past year. He'd had a hard life before he was led to us."

"What is it exactly that you do here, Mr. Parsons?" asked Gannon.

"We are a church, Detective. We also offer weary souls respite from the outside world. All are welcome here. People in transition, the homeless, travelers. We have a few bungalows that we've fixed up that serve as living quarters. We also do our best to be self sustaining. We grow our own food, live off the land. A modest existence, but very rewarding, I must say."

"What denomination are you affiliated with, Mr. Parsons?" asked Friday.

"We are non-denominational. We adhere to the basic tenets of the Christian faith. One creator God, who has sent his son to atone for our sins. However, we are more open than other churches. We just worship the Good Lord. Not so many rituals and strict rules."

"I've read through your literature here," Friday nodded. "I must say, it's interesting reading."

"It does my heart good to hear that."

Friday thumbed through the tract.

"Very interesting stuff. Like the one passage where you say that _It is the duty of each man and woman to liberate the masses from the bonds of Satan._ I don't ever remember reading that in the Bible."

"Ah, yes. Taken from one of my earlier sermons," Parsons stroked his beard. "I simply meant that we must do our best to spread the Lord's message, thus diminishing the hold that Satan has on this world."

"What about the part where you say that there must be a _purification of the old guard?"_ asked Gannon. "What exactly is _The Old Guard_?"

Parsons gave them a sidelong glance.

"Are you investigating my church, officers?"

"No, sir. Just curious," Friday replied casually.

Parsons cleared his throat.

"Do you have any more questions for me? I'm extremely busy today."

Gannon nodded

"Fixing your old car?"

"Did Mr. Rusnik ever seem to have a grudge against those in law enforcement?" asked Friday. "A disdain for police? Anything like that?"

"No, though he did speak of having run-ins with the law before he came to _Angels' Nest_."

Friday folded his arms.

"Would you happen to know where we could locate his next of kin?"

Parsons stood.

"No. I don't believe I do. As I said, I'm very busy today. So if you gentlemen have no further questions? "

"The jackets that your men-" Gannon started as he and Friday also stood.

"My parishioners."

"Right. The jackets that they were wearing, is that some sort of uniform that you have here?"

"Uniform? No. We take donations of clothing from time to time. Perhaps that's where they got them from."

"We'll show ourselves out, sir." Friday, passed him his business card. "If you can think of anything else, please don't hesitate to call. Thank you for your time."

The detectives didn't speak again until they were back on the road, headed down Mulholland.

"Those guys looked pretty serious when they saw us pull up, Joe." said Gannon.

Friday nodded.

"They were pretty quick to ask about a warrant, too. _And_ they were wearing black jackets just like the one Rusnik was wearing. Hondo said Rusnik mentioned the fact that there were more like him. I think we might've just found the _more_ he was talking about."

Gannon stared out his window.

"Somethin' definitely stinks."

"Yep," said Friday as they turned the corner. "Like the L.A. River after a rainstorm."

XXXXXX

Candace McPhee, a thin young woman with long blonde hair, walked into Parsons' office wearing faded green military fatigues.

"Baby, Thad said the cops were just here."

"Yeah the cops were here," Parsons said bitterly as he sat with his back to her, staring out the rear window. "Damned LAPD. No wonder. Thanks to Leon and Michael's little hunting trip downtown. Those idiots!"

"They were just practicing what you preached, weren't they?"

"Yes, but it was too damned soon. We need the element of surprise on our side. I don't like the way those two pigs were talking. Like they suspected us of something."

"Cops are stupid, Sammy,", she said, walking around the desk to face him. "And anyway, Mikey and Leon did the world a favor. One less cop, right?"

"I just don't want our work to be jeopardized."

"It won't. You worry too much. Did the Mexican bring our toys?"

He looked up at her and kissed her hand.

"Yes he did. Last night. Are you ready for this afternoon?"

"Of course," she sat on his lap and ran a hand through his hair. "Gotta fund the revolution, right?"

"Money. Yes. A necessary evil. Be careful today, okay?"

"Stop worrying, baby." she lit a cigarette, then took a drag before she placed it in his mouth. She exhaled a cloud of smoke. "It'll be a piece of cake."

XXXXXX

Hunter ducked under a line of yellow police tape and made his way down the sidewalk towards a liquor store. He checked in with the officer controlling the scene before entering the store.

Sergeant MacDonald, a burly patrol supervisor, met him just inside the door.

"Hunter. Back slumming it in Central again, are ya?" he said, shaking the detective's hand.

"I got homesick," Hunter smirked, slipping off his shades. "Nice to see ya again, Mac. What've we got?"

"211 gone bad," said MacDonald. "But then again, don't they all?"

Hunter peered over the counter to see a young Asian man laying in a pool of blood with a large gunshot wound to his chest.

"Man, looks like they used a damned cannon on this kid."

"Witnesses say that they heard two gunshots, then they saw a black male about twenty, wearing a black T-shirt and blue jeans come running out about ten seconds later. Ran north up Olive."

Hunter nodded, his eyes still fixed on the body. He pointed to the camera mounted above the door with his pen.

"We got any video?"

"Nope. Cameras don't work," the sergeant replied. "Just for show, apparently. You didn't think it would be that easy, did ya?"

A young, dark haired woman wearing a navy blue blazer entered, binder in hand.

"Detective Hunter?" she asked.

"Check it out, Mac," said Hunter. "Coroner's people actually showed up early for once."

"I'm not with the Coroner, I'm your new partner," she said, offering a neatly manicured hand. "Denise Peck. I'm transferring in from Van Nuys."

"Homicide?"

"Robbery. This is my first assignment in Homicide."

"Peck, huh?" MacDonald, chuckled. "Hunter and Peck? Hunt and Peck. I like that."

"Rick Hunter," Hunter shook her hand. "I didn't know I was getting a new partner."

"Yes sir, well, Captain Devane thought you'd protest less if he did it this way."

Hunter returned his attention to the corpse.

"Don't call me _sir_. Any reason why you're late, Peck?"

"I had a doctor's appointment. I hitched a ride over with a black and white. "

Hunter turned and stared at the floor. A yellow card covered the spot where a shell casing had landed.

"Great. I don't want you gettin' me sick. I hate taking time off."

"No, actually...it was my cat. She's got an ear infection."

Hunter looked up at her and then over at MacDonald who smiled and looked away.

"Look, just...save it, okay?" she sighed. "We got any wits?"

"Can't tell us much," Hunter replied. "They heard two shots and saw a male black run out and take off up the street."

She gestured with her binder.

"So where's the other slug? If the witnesses heard two shots?"

Hunter turned around and stood approximately where he thought the shooter would have stood. He raised his arm and mimicked a gun with his thumb and forefinger.

"If he missed with the second shot, it would've hit one of the bottles on the shelf behind our vic."

Peck stepped closer. She stared down at the various articles for sale on the counter. She slipped on a glove and carefully inspected a standing rack of potato chips.

"Here. Look at this," she said, carefully lifting a bag of chili cheese corn chips.

Hunter squinted down at the package.

"Looks like a little blood spatter. On the wrong side of the counter."

Peck stepped around the far side of the counter. She crouched near the victim's head.

"Nobody's processed the scene, yet?"

"Nope," answered MacDonald. "SID's a little short today. They're still en route."

Peck laid flat on the floor, palms down and looked under the counter. She then looked under a cabinet near the victim's head.

She reached under the cabinet and then stood up, carefully holding a .32 caliber pistol by the bottom of it's grip.

"It's been fired. One of the shots was from our victim."

"He threw a cap into his killer. Talk about a parting shot. So when he goes down, he drops his piece and it skids under the cabinet there."

"We're looking for a wounded suspect."

"I'll notify the hospitals," said MacDonald. "Not bad, huh, Rick? Looks like ya found a good replacement for the Brass Cupcake."

Peck raised an eyebrow.

"I'm sorry...who?"

"My old partner," Hunter replied. "Come on. Let's go see a man about a horse."

XXXXXX

 _ **0945 hrs.**_

 _ **LAPD SWAT training facility.**_

Michael Boxer retrieved his gear bag from the back of his truck as the rest of the team crossed the parking lot.

"Anybody seen the new guy yet?" asked Street, walking over with his bag slung over one shoulder. A gust of wind scattered leaves across the parking lot.

"Great. He's late," said Deacon. "This cat sure knows how to make an impression."

"We got a bigger issue," said Sanchez. "You owe me money, Deac."

Deacon dropped his bag.

"For what?"

She nodded in Street's direction.

"Our little wager."

"Oh yeah?" said Street, folding his arms. "What kind of wager."

"I bet Deac here, that you wouldn't have enough hair on your ass to call up Boxer's sister," Sanchez smirked.

"Wait, you took a bet on my little sister?," asked Boxer.

Street shifted uncomfortably, his hands in his pockets.

"How do you know I didn't call her?"

"Boxer told me."

"Yeah, what's up with that, Street?" asked Boxer. "I even gave you my blessing. She keeps asking me, ' _How's Jimmy? Did you tell him to call me?'_ Call her or cut her loose, man."

"Street, you didn't call her?" Deacon called, opening his wallet. "I gave you too much credit, man."

"I meant to, I just…uh…" Street stammered.

Deacon grudgingly slapped a $20 dollar bill into Sanchez's hand as Hondo rounded the corner.

"Can we get started now, kids?"

"Just waitin' for the new guy, Hondo," said Boxer.

"New guy's here," Hondo replied. "He's _been_ here."

He led them around the back of the building to the shooting range where a stocky, dark haired young man stood with a boot propped on a bench, loading a Remington .223 sniper rifle.

Hondo stood beside him.

"Everybody, this is the newest member of our team, Dominic Luca."

Luca nodded with a broad smile.

"Hey, everybody. Nice to meet ya. I've wanted to get into Hondo's squad ever since the whole incident with Montel. You guys were awesome."

"Yeah, tell that to Captain Fuller," Deacon replied.

Street motioned towards the targets mounted up on the hill on the far side of the range.

"You're not planning on hitting those today, are you?"

"I already did."

"In this wind?" asked Boxer, skeptically. "At _that_ distance?"

Luca reached into his bag and retrieved a used paper target. There were three holes, neatly punched through the middle.

"No way," said Sanchez, stepping forward to inspect it.

Hondo smiled, tucking his hands into his windbreaker.

"Go ahead and show 'im, Dom."

Luca shrugged. He laid down on the grass berm and positioned his rifle on its stand. He turned his cap backwards, closed one eye and peered through the scope.

The wind blew again, scattering leaves and papers across the lot behind him.

Luca calmly fired three shots, then stood up.

"How was that?"

Hondo grabbed a pair of binoculars from the table and handed them to Boxer.

Boxer lifted them to his eyes and laughed as he focused on the distant target.

"Son of a bitch. He nailed it. Dead center. Damn."

"So then, how did Fuller let us get somebody this good?" asked Deacon. "He hates us."

Hondo shrugged.

"Guess you didn't hear. Fuller's been promoted to a command position down at PAB. Due in large part to our actions during the Alex Montel incident."

Sanchez rolled her eyes.

"Glad we could help."

Street shook Luca's hand.

"Welcome to SWAT."

XXXXXX

Hunter pulled the sedan to the curb.

"So this guy is your snitch?" asked Peck as they stepped from the car.

"Sporty's not really a snitch," Hunter replied. "He's more of a business man."

A middle aged black man wearing a fedora sat on a shoeshine chair outside of a walk-in news stand, holding the L.A. Times sports section.

"Hunter! My man!" he called. "How ya been? And who is this little filly?"

" _Detective_ Peck," Peck replied sternly.

"Whoa, whoa. I sense I have offended." Sporty waved his paper in the air. "My apologies. Allow me to introduce myself. Arnold James, Esquire, at your service. My friends call me Sporty."

"How's business, Sporty?" asked Hunter.

"Oh man. Rough, Hunter. It is _rough_. I got a deal on some MP3 players real cheap. All legal, mind you..."

"Of course."

"Nobody is buyin', bruh. It's this economy. It's killin' my bottom line. So what are you here for, or do I already know?"

"You hear about that armed robbery that went down on Olive a little while ago? "

"Yeah. Heard somebody got shot behind that."

"What do you know?" asked Peck.

"I know I'm gonna need some cash to pay that shoeshine boy when he gets back."

Hunter pulled two bills from his jacket and tucked them into Sporty's shirt pocket.

"Nobody's gotten their shoes shined here since 1985, Sporty. What've ya got? "

"Boy named Simon is who ya want. Chubby little kid about nineteen. Came past here about twenty minutes ago carrying a bag from the drugstore and holding his arm."

"Simon _what_?" asked Peck.

"How should I know? He's a neighborhood kid. Seen 'im around."

"You know where we can find 'im?" asked Hunter.

"Nope. But he usually takes the bus. You can probably still catch 'im. Down the street and around the corner a spell. And that's all I know."

Sporty returned his attention to the newspaper. Peck slapped it out of his hands.

"Why didn't you just tell us that in the first place?"

Hunter grabbed her arm and led her back to their car.

"You need to learn some tact, lady," he said, opening her door. "See ya Sporty."

"Yeah. Good to have ya back, Hunter," Sporty called, snatching his newspaper from the sidewalk. "Sorry to have made your acquaintance, _De-tective_ Peck."

XXXXXX

Hunter and Peck rolled through traffic.

"We didn't have time for him to jerk us around," Peck said sullenly from the shotgun seat. "And don't ever manhandle me again, buddy."

"Sporty's a good C.I.," Hunter replied. "He's helped me break more than a few cases. You need to learn a little finesse, Peck."

As they turned the corner, an MTA bus had just pulled away from the curb.

"Let's try it," Hunter said as they sped forward.

He pulled alongside the bus and hit the siren to get the driver's attention. Peck held up her shield and pointed for the driver to pull to the curb.

As soon as the bus pulled over, Hunter stopped the sedan in front of it.

"1-William-56, show us CODE-6 at Flower and Venice. Requesting a black and white unit to assist, Code-2," he called into the radio before stepping from their car.

Peck made her way around the back of the bus and stood near the rear exit, hand on her sidearm. Hunter stepped onto the bus and held up his badge for the driver.

"Hi there," he said good naturedly as he held up his shield. "Sorry for the delay folks, just lookin' for somebody."

He scanned the seats to find the bus mostly empty. Two senior citizens sat near the front, holding hands. A portly Hispanic man sat at the back, eating a sandwich and a teenage girl sat in front of him, lost in the music flowing through her headphones.

Hunter stepped back off of the bus and shook his head.

"Anything?" asked Peck.

"He wasn't there," he sighed as they headed back to their car. "Bus driver hadn't seen him."

Just as Peck opened her door, she stared up the street.

A young black man was sitting on the bus bench on the opposite corner wearing a heavy jacket and holding a plastic shopping bag.

"Hunter." Peck nodded.

As Hunter looked up, the kid glanced over, making eye contact with him. He quickly stood up and began to walk away at a brisk pace which quickly evolved into a full run.

Hunter darted into traffic, forcing two cars to slam on their brakes. He raced up the street towards the suspect.

"Police! Freeze right there!" he shouted.

Peck climbed in behind the wheel of their sedan and hit the siren.

"1-W-56, officers need assistance," she notified the dispatcher. "Southbound Venice from Flower. My partner is in foot pursuit, mid-block on Flower."

The suspect dashed into an alley. Hunter ran after him while Peck was stuck in traffic, waiting for another bus to clear the intersection.

As Hunter entered the alley, a black and white turned the corner and chirped its siren as it pulled into the alley with red and blue lights flashing.

The suspect had run into a dead end. He stood with his back against a twelve foot high brick wall, breathing heavily.

Hunter drew his .45 and leveled it at the young man who reached towards his jacket.

"Don't do it!" he called. "Drop the bag and show me your hands!"

Reed and Malloy stepped from the patrol car and rushed forward, guns trained on the suspect.

The boy dropped the bag and raised his hands.

"Turn around!" Malloy shouted. "On your knees! Hands behind your head!"

Reed stepped forward. He handcuffed the boy and pulled him to his feet.

Peck stepped from the unmarked unit and jogged into the alley.

"Kinda hot to be wearin' a jacket like this, isn't it?" asked Hunter as he searched the young man.

He reached into his waistband and removed a chrome Desert Eagle semiautomatic handgun.

"Well, I'm pretty sure we're gonna match this to that hole ya left in that poor guy at the liquor store," he said, propping the suspect against the hood of the patrol car.

"How ya feelin' Simon?" asked Peck picking up the plastic bag and pulling out a large pack of bandages. "Are you hurt?"

The boy stared at the ground. Hunter yanked down the left side of his jacket to reveal a hole in his upper arm, oozing blood. The boy winced in pain.

"I'll call an R.A.," Malloy said, keying the mic on his chest.

Hunter finished searching the suspect. He pulled out his wallet and flipped it open.

"Simon Dawes, you are under arrest," Hunter said coolly. "You have the right to remain silent…"

As Hunter read him his rights, Reed studied the weapon that Hunter had placed on the hood of the patrol car.

"This is a Desert Eagle," he said, slipping on a pair of latex gloves.

"Uh, Reed, what are you doin'?" asked Malloy, draping an arm over his open door.

"We gotta clear it, right?" Reed cautiously released the magazine, then racked the slide and removed chambered round. He laid the gun down, but continued to stare at it thoughtfully.

"Your partner got a thing for guns, Officer?" asked Peck.

"No, _Detective,_ " Malloy replied, drawing out the word. "I've seen that look before. He's thinking about something."

"I'm sorry," the boy began to cry. "I didn't mean to shoot that man. I just needed some cash…"

"Okay, take some deep breaths, son," said Hunter, focusing on Reed. "What is it, Reed?"

"This is a .41 caliber model," said Reed.

"So?" asked Peck.

"So, they don't make these anymore. Pete, remember about three or four weeks ago, there was that 459 at that gun store in Chinatown?"

"Yeah," Malloy nodded. "Yeah, I do. If I remember right, they cleaned 'em out of AR-15's among other things."

"And about five or six .41 caliber Desert Eagles," said Reed. "If the serial number hasn't been filed off, I'd bet good money that this'll be one of the stolen guns."

"Son, where'd you get the gun?" asked Hunter.

The boy stared at the ground, continuing to sob.

"Look, you might as well, give it up, kid," said Malloy. "They'll go easier on you if you tell the whole truth."

The boy shook his head.

"How's that arm doin, Simon?" asked Peck. "Looks pretty bad."

She squeezed the boy's arm below the wound and he howled in pain.

"Sorry about that. I'm not a doctor," she replied. "Let me see if I can get that bullet out…"

"NOOO!" the boy screamed. "My…my brother…"

"Your brother?" asked Hunter.

"His…his gun…" the boy cried. "I took it. It's my brother's gun…he…he gonna kill me…"

Peck lifted the boy's chin so she could stare him in the eye.

"Believe me, your brother is the least of your problems. Where'd he get it?"

"I don't know, ma'am. I swear to God. I don't know."

Hunter led the boy out of the alley, followed by Peck as an ambulance stopped in the street.

"Good eye, Reed," said Hunter. "Looks like we cracked two cases at once."

Reed nodded and sighed. Malloy studied him over the roof of the black and white Crown Vic.

"Somethin' eatin' you, Junior?"

"I don't know, Pete. Seems like Detective Peck was a little rough on him."

"He did just kill a man."

"Yeah, I know," Reed sighed, opening his door. "But still...he's just a kid. He killed a man and he's more upset because his brother'll be mad at him. I don't even know what to say about that."

The officers climbed back into their cruiser.

"Remember what I always say, Jim?"

"Don't get emotionally involved. I know. I know," he sighed as he closed his door and picked up the mic. "1-Adam-12, clear."

XXXXXX

Friday and Gannon sat at their desks in the RHD offices, going over paperwork.

Frank Smith walked over holding a computer printout.

"Bill, Joe. I ran your man Parsons through NCIC. _Samuel Parsons_ is an alias. Real name is Samuel Keith Robbins. He did time at Chino a couple of years back for forgery. Also has a domestic violence beef from 2012 out of Santa Monica.

Friday leaned back in his chair.

"So our holy man isn't so holy after all."

XXXXXX

 _ **1644 hrs.**_

 _ **Angels' Nest compound.**_

The small cottage was filled with young men and women sitting on folding chairs.

Parsons stepped to the small pulpit at the front of the room.

"My children, the time is drawing nigh," he called, drawing cheers and applause from the gathering. "The time to begin the Good Lord's work. Can I get an amen, brothers and sisters?"

"AMEN!" the group called.

XXXXXX

Candace McPhee sat in the passenger seat of a silver minivan, her blond hair pulled back under what looked like a black watch cap.

Thad Sorenson in the driver's seat and Joseph Flores in the back seat, wore the same type of cap.

She slid the mag into her Desert Eagle and stared at the Topanga Savings and Loan building across the street.

"Ready, boys?"

"Yes," they replied plainly.

"You'd better be, 'cause I will not hesitate to leave either of your asses behind."

Flores slid open the van's side door.

"Let's just do this already."

He stepped out, concealing an AK-47 under his trench coat. He and McPhee briskly crossed the street towards the bank.

XXXXXX

"Los Angeles is no more the City of the Angels," Parsons called to his congregation. "It is the City of the _Fallen_ Angels! It is our heavenly duty to free the people of this city! To bring about a society free from poverty, free from the few who control the wealth and keep it away from the many...away from the poor! Away from those who are so desperately in need!"

XXXXXX

Before they entered the bank, McPhee and Flores pulled the ski-masks down over their faces. As they entered, Flores fired several shots into the air, eliciting frightened screams from the bank patrons.

"Everybody, get on the floor, this is a robbery!" McPhee shouted.

The security guard reached for his pistol as he stepped forward.

McPhee fired, striking the guard in the chest. He collapsed onto the marble floor.

She quickly stepped towards the nearest teller window and leveled her pistol at the woman inside.

"Money. Now," she said, tossing a gym bag onto the counter. "Put a dye bomb in there and you're dead, sister."

XXXXXX

"And we will free our brothers and sisters from oppression, my Children!" Parsons continued, banging his fist on the lectern. "We will free them from the heartless storm troopers who have occupied this city!"

XXXXXX

McPhee and Flores ran from the bank. They quickly piled back into the mini-van and it sped way from the curb. As they stripped off their masks, Flores opened the bag and pulled out two handfuls of cash.

The three exchanged looks and burst out laughing.

XXXXXX

Parsons pulled a pistol from under the lectern and thrust it into the air.

"As our departed brothers have demonstrated, we will wage war on those who would seek to keep us down, to stop the Lord's work! We will wage war, children! We will wage war...on the LAPD!"

The room erupted into cheers.

 _ **TO BE CONTINUED...**_

 _This is a work of fiction, any similarities to actual persons, places or incidents is purely coincidental. All law enforcement information may not be accurate._


End file.
